


No One's Bait (Fight Club Mix)

by Woldy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Female Protagonist, Fights, Gen, Gen Fic, Gender Issues, POV Female Character, Women Being Awesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-20
Updated: 2012-04-20
Packaged: 2017-11-04 00:38:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/387723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Woldy/pseuds/Woldy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“In the flesh,” Moriarty says, breathing into her ear like the creepiest creeper on the planet, and that's the moment that Anthea vows she is <i>taking him down.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	No One's Bait (Fight Club Mix)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [No One's Bait](https://archiveofourown.org/works/283249) by [igrockspock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/igrockspock/pseuds/igrockspock). 



The best and worst thing about being a woman is that people under-estimate you. Men especially. A man sees an attractive young woman and he wants to fuck her, or rescue her, or both; she's not an equal, or an adversary, she's bait. Anthea's lost count of how many times she's used that to her advantage.

So when the barrel of a gun presses between her shoulder-blades, Anthea doesn't panic.

“Get into the car,” the man orders in a low, singsong voice. 

She knows who he is already, but she decides to ask anyway. The question will make her seem nervous and uncertain, and the more he under-estimates her the easier this will be.

"Moriarty?"

He leans forward, much too far into her personal space and close enough that Anthea can smell his B.O. and aftershave. There's a hot, damp breath against her neck, like a panting dog. 

“In the flesh,” Moriarty says, huffing into her ear like the creepiest creeper on the planet and that's the moment Anthea vows she is _taking him down._

_______________

It's been a long day. Anthea's feet hurt from walking the best part of a mile around GCHQ in her Gucci stilettos. She's listened to a lot of tedious men talking about cryptography, and was blocked from using her phone for nearly an hour — a sure way to piss her off. She _really_ needs to unwind.

"We've got a new member tonight," Rob says, grandstanding in the center of the room, and Anthea rolls her eyes. "This is Mike, who just joined the security detail. So I'll go over the rules."

In the three years she's been working for Mycroft, Anthea's heard the rules dozens of times. The rules never change. This group is, in fact, one of the few constants about her job. They meet weekly in the basement of an unremarkable government building near the Ministry of Agriculture, and everyone here is a 'public servant' — Mycroft's phrase. 

She pulls her phone out of her pocket, and opens her messages. 

"You DO NOT talk about Fight Club," Rob repeats, loudly.

The most recent message is from Mycroft with the subject line _Fw: Glow in the dark rabbits_. Anthea almost doesn't open it, but anything to do with Sherlock — and clearly this involves Sherlock, because who else would be talking about fluorescent rabbits — tends to get worse the longer you leave it. She opens the message, scans the words quickly, and then starts typing a response.

"If this is your first night at Fight Club, you HAVE to fight," Rob concludes over-dramatically. "Pick an opponent, Mike."

"Her," says a male voice — Mike, she presumes — as Anthea taps out the last few letters and presses send. She returns the phone to her jacket pocket and looks up. 

"Me, is it?" Anthea asks, glancing around for confirmation.

There are two other woman who sometimes attend, but neither of them are present today. One of them hasn't been here since Anthea gave her a cracked rib six months ago. She hopes the woman didn't take it personally.

Anthea slides off her jacket and presents it to the man standing nearest. "Hold this for a minute will you, Simon?"

"Sure you want to fight her?" says Rob, in a tone that's a mixture of warning and amusement.

"I'm sure," the guy says, and Anthea looks him over slowly as she steps out of her stilettos. 

"She's got a good hit rate," Rob cautions, as Anthea walks barefoot into the center of the room. 

"I've got nothing to worry about," the new guy brags, cracking his knuckles. 

"I'm glad to hear that," Anthea says blandly.

She knows how she looks: a woman in her twenties, 5 ft 5 inches, 140 pounds, glossy hair and immaculate lipstick. Her opponent is in his late thirties and just over six feet tall, which gives him more range. He's probably twice her weight, and judging by his stance he's ex-military. It should be no contest.

"Since you're new, I'll give you the courtesy of the first swing," she offers.

"Don't need it, love." 

Anthea flashes him a smile. "Good," she says, and kicks in the diaphragm with all her force.

To the man's credit, he stays upright despite having all the air has been knocked out of him. He takes a swing at her head, but Anthea steps under his arm and hits him across the cheek with the back of her hand. When he lashes out with the other hand Anthea's ready and dodges away.

He's glaring at her now, shoulders hunched and wheezing slightly. If Anthea was kind-hearted she'd give him a few seconds to catch his breath. Instead, she jabs towards him with her right, lifting her elbow and exaggerating the movement to make it obvious, and is satisfied when he blocks with his forearm. The jolt of his arm against hers is just the momentum she needs and Anthea spins on one leg, surroundings blurring around her for an instant, before the room comes back into focus as her roundhouse kick connects with his face. She hears the crack as his nose shatters, and feels the warm spray of blood over her foot.

"Bitch," he mutters, stumbling back and lifting his hands to protect his bloody, broken nose.

Anthea knows a dozen ways to take him down from here; it's all a matter of how, and how hard, she wants him to fall. She takes a second to assess the potential damage: a fractured skull, concussion, broken wrist, cracked ribs, or just a serious winding. Her instinct is always to incapacitate her opponent, but Mycroft's words run through her head: _"The budget only covers sixteen active agents. Being injured doesn't take them off payroll, Anthea."_

In deference to Mycroft she opts for the mildest solution, darting forward to grab a handful of his hair and hook her ankle around his knee. He falls exactly as she knew he would, and the jerk of her fist stops his head from cracking against the concrete. As he flails on the floor, she grabs his right arm and _twists_.

"I'd be happy to break your arm," Anthea says conversationally. "Just let me know."

For a few seconds the room is still and silent, everyone's gaze trained on the hapless Mike. Then, as she increases the pressure on his arm, he gasps and taps urgently against her thigh.

Anthea releases his arm, and stands up. "A pleasure, Mike," she says, and turns on her heel. 

She doesn't offer her hand. Mycroft would, she's sure, but Anthea doesn't share the jolly hockey sticks camaraderie of the aristocracy. She can fake being posh well enough with the practiced accent and understated designer clothes, but it still doesn't come naturally. _"I hire agents who have something to prove," she remembers Mycroft saying, toying with the umbrella. "That's what makes them good at their jobs."_

Simons looks up from his watch, proffers her jacket, and says "Fifty-four seconds." 

"I did say I'd only need you for a minute," replies Anthea, taking the jacket from his out-stretched hand. She pulls out the phone and checks her messages again, then toes into her shoes and flashes an apologetic smile at the room. "Gotta run. See you all next week."

The torrent of Mike's swearing is audible as she walks away down the corridor.

_______________

Scotland Yard is the third most boring place in London, Anthea decides. The phone reception is lousy, and since they left her in this questioning room there's been nobody to charm, threaten, or psych out. There are no security cameras or bugs in the vicinity, and this room contains no files to read, or discussions for her to overhear. If it's possible to die of tedium then she's in more danger here than she was with Moriarty's gun pointed at her head.

The door swings open, and Anthea's head jerks up.

Mycroft stands in the doorway, with his usual air of a bureaucratic penguin: immaculate waistcoat stretched over his stomach, feet turned out slightly, neck erect, bald forehead gleaming. He's a master of unthreatening body language. 

"The police don't require a statement from you. They have enough evidence to make charges, and the medical report concludes that Moriarty's arm was fractured in his fall from the vehicle."

He meets her eye, and Andrea knows that the police reports won't matter: Moriarty will be found dead in custody before he appears in court. After the crown jewels case they're not taking any more chances.

She's never been able to decide what the best part of this job is: the violence, the spying, her boss's ability to change history and achieve the impossible, or the salary that pays for tailored suits and designer shoes. Of course, she had a few luxuries before. The ability to walk out of Harrods carrying £7000 of merchandise without alerting a single guard or leaving any footage on the shop's security cameras is why she was hired. 

"Thanks," she says, and Mycroft's eyebrow curves.

"Thank _you_ , Anthea. He was becoming a bother."

"No trouble," she replies, uncrossing her legs and standing up. 

"I suppose not," he says thoughtfully, with that characteristic Holmes expression that means he's deducing far too much about her. "No doubt all that practice incapacitating my staff came in useful?"

"Yeah. Cost effective in the long run," she responds, walking across to his side with her phone poised. "Are we done?"

"For today," says Mycroft. His eyes flicker to the back of her jacket, which has a wet smear from rolling on the tarmac when she threw herself out of the car after Moriarty. She snagged a good pair of tights in that maneuver too, but it was worth it. 

Anthea's satisfaction in kneeing Moriarty in the stomach and pistol whipping him across the face has more to do with the dislike of being patronized and leered at than with national security, but no one except Mycroft knows that. Well, perhaps Mycroft and the Fight Club.

"With this threat neutralized, I can find a little extra in the budget," he murmurs as they walk out of Scotland Yard and towards the waiting car. 

Anthea smiles, and out of the corner of her eye sees Mycroft's lip twitch and his frown line disappear for a moment. She knows an apology when she hears one.


End file.
